anyone;

[atrox]

a t r o x -- There are few things that stir enough interest in Atrox to walk down the mountains. He was content to spend his years hunting amongst the fog, napping in the low branches of tangling trees—comforted by the external sound of his own pulse thudding beneath his paws. He spent more time in his panther form than stallion these days, enjoying the feel of the feline body, the slick coat and lean muscles fitting him like a glove. It was hard to untie the two forms now; they had become so intertwined that it was easy to forget whether he was horse or cat or something in between. Some heartless sentry long forgotten. The truth of the matter was that Atrox was still getting his bearings. He had been ready for war, preparing for the drums of it that sounded in his chest, but it had been stripped from him. One moment, he had been standing on the edges of the craggy mountain and the next…the next, he had been nowhere. He was no stranger to the unknown, but this was different. Whispers had told him he was being protected. Whispers had told him that he could not lose his life again. Something about family. Something about blood magic. He hadn’t cared. He had fought, raged, furiously. Then, the whispers told him it was the Chamber’s will. And he had quieted. Since returning, the panther-stallion could not help but feel like perhaps the whispers had lied; it was a feeling in the back of his skull, an anger in his veins. Not necessarily at him, but outward. It created an unease in him (a mission uncompleted, a job left undone) that in turn left his mood black. He did not know why he was pulled from this reality and trapped in another. He did not know why he was denied the chance to fight for the Chamber, to spill blood again in her name—and there was nothing that he could do. It was this black mood—this adrenaline—that stirs him to action. He scowls at the group, unwinding from the tree and then stalking down blanketed in shadows. His motion is fluid, yellow eyes flashing, as he walks around the group’s parameter. He watches the indigo girl, his granddaughter, and marvels at Twinge’s sharp tongue coming out of her mouth. He was not overly biased toward his children, it would be impossible with the size and breadth of his brood, but he did pay extra mind to those who came from Twinge. She was harsh and cruel and the only thing that came close to his love for the Chamber. Still, he says nothing—instead watching in his silent rage, tinged with amusement, as the conversation unfolds around them. He tilts his large, flat head toward Smother as she speaks, wondering idly at the odd feeling of remembrance before brushing it off. On one hand, she was one of his own, although he did not know it. On the other, it was perhaps for the best that he did not recognize her own maternal grandmother, Kindling, for their was no love lost between him and the once-Chamberling. His history ran deep here. Finally, after silence fell momentarily, he padded toward the group, shifting effortlessly as he became the broad, well-muscled, and well-scarred stallion. His yellow eyes flicked with noted boredom around the group before settling on Infection. “Well, aren’t you rather disgusting.” One corner of his mouth curled up into a sardonic grin before lips peeled back to reveal the panther fangs, slightly yellowed. “Before we start arguing about who is a legend and who knows the Chamber best, let’s first get some names.” His eyes glittered and a laugh sounded deep in his throat. “I’m Atrox,” he practically drawled, lengthening the normally bullet-short syllables to a languid pace. For a second, he glanced around the group, nodding briefly at Killdare and Malis, mostly ignoring the rest because that was just the kind of bastard he was, before moving back to Infection. “What does the rotting meat bag call itself?” panther-stallion | ex-king | forever chamber guardian

welp. so atrox decided he wanted to come play.